


gazing into the abyss

by sabrinachill



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Shmoop, Softness, Time Loop, seriously so much fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 08:39:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15190994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabrinachill/pseuds/sabrinachill
Summary: “In retrospect, this may not have been the greatest idea.”The orange tip of Eliot’s cigarette is the only thing visible against the thick, velvety darkness, bobbing around with his words like a drunken firefly. When he finishes speaking and inhales, the ember flares brighter, a visual exclamation mark.***In the thirty-sixth timeline, they don’t try to fight; they simply hide. And they stumble upon something beautiful there in the dark.





	gazing into the abyss

“In retrospect, this may not have been the greatest idea.”

The orange tip of Eliot’s cigarette is the only thing visible against the thick, velvety darkness, bobbing around with his words like a drunken firefly. When he finishes speaking and inhales, the ember flares brighter, like a visual exclamation mark. 

“I just can’t believe we were actually able to do it,” Quentin answers from somewhere off to his left. “I mean, we were only at Brakebills a couple of weeks before we had to—” his voice catches for a moment and he takes a steadying breath, “—before we ran away here. I don’t know how we learned enough in that short time to be able to do _this,_ to expand the Abyss to swallow all of Fillory.”

“I think that’s mostly thanks to Margo; she and I have an extra year of education on you, and she’s always been a champion swallower.”

Quentin smiles, and it feels strange. Because in this impenetrable dark, he’s smiling just for himself, simply because he found something amusing. It’s not to make someone else happy, or to hide his nervousness or the fact that he’s vaguely miserable at all times. He’s smiling because he _wants_ to.

It makes him smile wider.

Eliot stubs out his cigarette, plunging them back into absolute darkness. There are lanterns onboard the ship, of course, and candles, and probably even a torch or two, but they’re unwilling to light any up on the deck. Even that tiny bit of light could give away their location.

Until now, Quentin’s only knowledge of the Abyss had come through the maps of Fillory printed on the endpapers of his first editions; he remembers lying in his old bed, tracing his fingers over the letters and dreaming about the unfathomable void. He thought it would be frightening, that it would leave him disoriented and claustrophobic, but that’s not the case.

He finds it incredibly _freeing_.

Being inside of the Abyss is like having an ink pot spilled across the story of his life - it blots out the existing words and creates a new kind of blank page, darker but more mysterious, and holding endless possibilities. Quentin wants to swirl his fingers through it and create something else, a better narrative of himself and his existence. Something calmer, something that provides space to breathe and think, a place to simply _be_ outside of the terror of the Beast.

He feels the tentative promise of a life like that already, with his friends resting safely in the Muntjac’s hold and Eliot lying just an arm’s length away from him here on the deck, cocooned in the boundless dark.

Not even the Beast can find them now. (Which is, of course, the whole point.)

It was a reckless move, expanding the Abyss like this, an act born out of the simplistic theory that, in order for the Beast to kill them, it would first have to _find_ them. And since navigation inside the Abyss is impossible it seemed like the best place to hide - except they didn’t have time to sail all the way there. So they brought the Abyss to the boat. To everything, actually - as far as they can tell, it now covers the whole of Fillory. 

Of course, they haven’t really considered the ramifications of such a monumental change. Like, what happens when the sun just… never comes back? Will they freeze or starve to death? And does the Abyss even have enough power to keep them truly free of the Beast?

But right now, Quentin honestly can’t be bothered to care about any of that. He’s too exhausted from months living as terrified prey, of running and hiding in damp caves with Fillorian beasts and camping beneath incessantly ticking clock-trees. Of not getting enough food and not nearly enough sleep, of seeing flashbacks of the Beast blowing up Brakebills during his second week of classes and of the few survivors, his _friends,_ wounded and bloody and choking on smoke as they barely escaped to Fillory.

The Muntjac and the Abyss are the first bit of peace he’s found in what feels like ages. It’s as if he’s shed half his body weight and his lungs are filled with helium, his head light and spinning. And at the same time, he feels safe and grounded, like a child hidden inside a blanket fort, cozy and staring up into the darkness while dreaming of what the future could hold, audaciously hopeful.

He and Eliot lie on the wooden deck in companionable silence as the sea rises and falls unseen beneath them, the boat gently rocking, lulling them into a comfortable ease. Quentin is drifting in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, having a hard time figuring out whether his eyes are open or closed. He blinks, slow and deliberate; he scrunches his cheeks and eyebrows together until he’s certain his eyes are screwed shut, then flings them open wide. He wiggles his fingers inches from his face. Nothing. His hand smells vaguely of soap and Fillorian sea bass, but he can’t see a damn thing. 

It’s a kind of darkness Quentin has never experienced before, and the absolute, all-consuming nature of it is mystifying and bewildering - it’s as if he’s come unmoored, released from his typically anxious and frenetic physical body. And even beyond that, the Abyss seems to swallow his awareness of the air and the sea and the ship and even Eliot, everything dissolving into one deep, black pool, swirling together like the primordial soup.

He hopes something new can evolve and rise from this, too.

Because the high of their success with the spell, at cloaking the whole of Fillory in this impenetrable darkness, is beginning to wane. Reality is seeping in at the edges like it always does, casting a wet blanket over him. Quentin sighs.

“We can’t go on like this forever, you know.”

“I know.” There’s a change in the sound of Eliot’s breath, the deck creaking as he shifts his weight, and Quentin somehow knows that Eliot has rolled onto his side, facing him. And sure enough, a hand settles on his chest, Eliot’s thumb rubbing tiny, soothing circles over the hard plane of Quentin’s sternum. “But we can pretend that we can, at least for tonight. Catch our breath. Get some rest.” There’s a tiny hitch in his thumb’s motion, his voice maybe a fraction lower when he finishes with, “Find something worth fighting for.”

Quentin huffs, rolling his eyes to himself. “You mean other than our lives?”

“Oh, come now, Quentin. Neither of us have ever valued our lives highly enough to actually fight for them.”

Eliot says it lightly, like their mutual mile-wide self-destructive streaks are things they can easily joke about. And, right now at least, they actually _can_. It’s unreasonably easy to say impossible things here in the dark, where there’s no chance for intense eye contact or judgmental eyebrow raises or sarcastic smirks. It’s as if the external stuff has all fallen away and left them - the cores of them, the simplest, most fundamental parts - bare and raw and exposed.

“I’d fight for your life.”

The whispered words seem louder in the endless night. Everything does - the rustle of clothing, the soft exhale of Eliot’s breath, the small splashes as sea creatures go about their lives all around them.

“I’m really more of a lover than a fighter, Q,” Eliot replies, with his usual studied casualness. But his voice softens when he adds, “but I think I’d fight for you, too.”

They’ve never acknowledged this thing - whatever it is - that exists between them. Quentin’s barely even had time to consider it, what with all the magic and interplanetary travel and being endlessly hunted by the Beast. But now that he’s got a second to breathe, to think of something beyond merely _existing,_ he realizes just how much he wants it. He hasn’t had anyone in so long - none of them have, there hasn’t been time - and he hasn’t even kissed anyone since before he learned that magic was real.

It feels so long ago that he’s not sure he remembers how to do it.

But he wants to try, and not just because he’s scared and lonely, but because this is _Eliot._ Because he’s smart and funny, in Quentin’s favorite way, where he feels included in the joke instead of the target of it. Because he’s so loving and protective of those few he deems worthy, and while Quentin will never understand how he’s lucky enough to be included in that select group, he thanks Ember and Umber and every other major and minor deity in all the worlds that he is.

He wants it because Eliot may be a little broken but he’s still here, he’s still trying. Because he’s loyal and dramatic and the most profoundly beautiful person Quentin has ever seen, in every meaning of the word.

But mostly because every time he looks at Quentin there’s a softness in his dark eyes, and it feels like warmth and magic and _home._

The Abyss presses around him, almost tangible, perhaps nearly even _sentient_ \- the mad rush of blood in Quentin’s head is making soft susurrations, like the darkness is whispering in an ancient language, urging him onward.

Quentin draws one shaky breath, teetering on the edge of something he doesn’t quite understand.

And Eliot seems to sense it, how tentative and fragile the moment is, the space between them like the glass of an antique mirror that’s turned black with neglect. If he so much as _breathes_ on it wrong it could shatter.

The hand still resting on Quentin’s chest strokes softly, fingertips running over the sharp edge of his clavicle, and Eliot leans in so slowly they can feel the temperature rise in incremental degrees as their skin draws closer together. Quentin’s shirt is soft, the cotton worn and nearly threadbare beneath Eliot’s hand, and he hears the sound of a nervous swallow, feels the warm brush of uneven breath against his skin and the prickle of stubble under his palm when he cups Quentin’s cheek, their faces only inches apart yet still invisible to one another.

Eliot pauses for a small moment, giving them both one last chance to back away.

But then Quentin lifts his head, just a fraction, and their lips brush together, feather-light and warm and perfect; Quentin swears he can see beyond the Abyss to the stars above, pinpricks of bright white lights filling his vision, swirling behind his eyes.

Eliot lowers himself, the solid weight of his chest pressing Quentin into the deck as he deepens the kiss, pulling Quentin’s lower lip between his, swiping his tongue across it, curling into his mouth.

Quentin reaches up and winds his fingers into Eliot’s thick curls, holding him there, kissing him slow and lazy for a small eternity. His skin is electric, sparking, but his head is as blissfully empty as the world around him, the clean black of a blank slate, and he’s eager to fill it with nothing but the feel of Eliot’s skin on his and the taste of him on his tongue.

He’s mesmerized, nearly meditative; he lets his eyes drift open and pretends he’s in the deep darkness at the center of his own heart, the only place he’s ever let himself believe that this could really happen.

He eventually pulls away just enough to catch his breath, laughing a little in small, breathless wonderment, their foreheads still pressed together, Eliot’s fingertips grazing Quentin’s jawline as they breathe each other in. Quentin wants to say something but he’s not sure that words for it exist - and then it doesn’t matter, because Eliot’s mouth claims his once again.

They kiss for what feels like hours, until their lips are swollen and and their cheeks burn, raw from each other’s stubble. They don’t do anything else, content to take it slow for once, to savor every second, to learn the shape of one another with their fingers, to memorize the smell and taste of their skin.

And then they simply lie there, tangled together on the polished deck of the Muntjac until what should have been dawn, quietly staring up into the blackness together.

Neither of them knows what the future holds, how long they can hide in this new, boundless Abyss, or what the Beast will do when it inevitably finds them. But they feel stronger now, together, so maybe that will help them somehow win.

And for the moment, they have this - the peace of the quiet and dark, the warmth of one another, and the tender bloom of something new and precious and definitely worth fighting for.

“I’m scared,” Quentin admits, so soft it’s little more than breath over his lips - but in the black stillness, Eliot can hear him.

More than that, he _understands_. That Quentin isn’t talking about the Beast, or the darkness, or some nameless existential despair.

He’s talking about _this,_ about _them,_ about how their feelings are already powerful enough to swallow them both as completely as the Abyss swallowed the world.

“Me, too; I’m completely terrified.” Eliot smiles and leans in to kiss him again, murmuring against his tender lips. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

**Author's Note:**

> For the final [Welters](http://thewelterschallenge.tumblr.com) theme, _The Black Out_. Thanks for reading and playing along with me!  <3


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